


the waves have come

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is the Lady of Storm's End, Book canon is important, F/M, Future Fic, Jon and Dany rule together as it should be, lots of angst and tragedy, pls don't get lost in my headcanons, season 8 didn't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: Upon birth, they called her The Light of The Realm, The Miracle Princess. It is told, that when her father carried her in his arms down the grand steps of the Red Keep to show her to highborn and common folk alike, the clouds parted, sky itself opened and sunlight came streaming down to touch her soft baby hair, bleaching them into the lightest shade of gold.It is told that she is blessed by Seven themselves, that her path is meant to be paved with greatness suppressing even that of her ancestors.But these are just stories. // Alysanne Targaryen, on the day of her wedding





	the waves have come

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure this will be my longest author's note EVER.   
> So this fic is my personal little thought experiment of how the characters' fates could potentially unfold, given some book canon which was not present in the show. If you haven't read ASOIAF, here's all that I think you need to know:
> 
> \- Good Queen Alysanne and King Jaehearys Targaryen ruled Westeros between 48 and 103 AC. They were the best rulers in the history of this dynasty  
> \- Sheepstealer was a wild dragon that took part in Targaryen civil war, called The Dance of the Dragons - at that time, he was already around 80. After the Dance, it disappeared along with its rider, a girl called Nettles  
> \- Young Griff is the ward of exiled lord Jon Connington, who claims to be Aegon Targaryen, FIRST son of Rheagar Targaryen (the one he had with Elia Martell - contrary to his second son that he had with Lyanna Stark, whom we know as Jon Snow) who somehow miraculously survived the Sack of King's Landing  
> \- Dragonbinder is the ancient dragon horn of Valyrian Dragon Lords, found by Euron Greyjoy across the Narrow Sea. It is believed that it can be used to bind a dragon to its user and then control the beast.   
> \- Few facts about dragons - they can live insanely long, no one really knows how long. They never stop growing AND now one can really determine the dragon's sex, nor it is known how exactly they reproduce. 
> 
> And one more thing - the main character of this story is Alysanne, the firstborn child of Jon and Dany. This fic is also veeeeery loosely connected with my another got/asoiaf story called HEART, but only when it comes to parings and names of children basically. With that in mind, please enjoy ;)

_the twilight is falling, lamps will soon go on_

> _and where did summer go_
> 
> _i will never know_
> 
> _summer used to last endlessly_
> 
> _children all in white,_
> 
> _running down the sand_
> 
> _to me_
> 
> _playing hide and seek_
> 
> _kisses on the cheek_

* * *

Upon birth, they called her The Light of The Realm, The Miracle Princess. It is told, that when her father carried her in his arms down the grand steps of the Red Keep to show her to highborn and common folk alike, the clouds parted, the sky itself opened and sunlight came streaming down to touch her soft baby hair, bleaching them into the lightest shade of gold.

It is told that she is blessed by Seven themselves, that her path is meant to be paved with greatness suppressing even that of her ancestors.

But these are just stories.

*

On the morning of her wedding day, she wakes up before dawn and lays awake in her bed for hours, watching as the sun slowly, almost lazily, rises above the horizon.

Light sparkles on the waters of Blackwater Bay and all of the ships in the harbor emerge from the shadows, with their flags of all the colors of the rainbow; all of the noble houses and all of the cities and all of the kingdoms that maesters can name.

Except not all, because the scene could not be more foreign to her eyes.

There are no silver direwolves of Starks, nor golden stags of Baratheons.

And instead of a three-headed scarlet dragon curled around a white wolf – the sigil of her House, _her_ sigil, the one she used to wear on her clothes and jewelry (the broth on her furs, the embroidery on her night clothes, the banner hanging behind her back) – there is only an one-headed, brown dragon on a dark background, entwined with a golden griffin.

Weeping or cursing would probably ease the knot of her insides a little and she wants to weep so badly, but she cannot even cry anymore. Her tears must have long formed a river and fallen down the sea, for her eyes remain dry and her insides are burning from a fire she doesn’t know how to put down.

Her maids come in not long after sunrise to get her ready; they flock around her like hummingbirds, nervously chatting about _what a beautiful day is_ _and how beautiful her dress is_ and _how beautiful she is._ Their hands are shaking and their cheeks are pale. They are avoiding her gaze altogether, refusing to look her in the eyes. All - but her cousin Cat, with her beautiful golden-red hair down in a Northern manner and face painted with steel defiance.

She is not tweeting, is not twitching, is not trembling.

_This one’s not broken yet,_ she thinks, feeling a sudden surge of warmth blooming in her chest, and gently squeezes Cat’s hand as she helps her do the laces on the front of the dress.

As they adorn her hair with white roses, she wonders where Lyanna is. Is she still across the Narrow Sea with Gill? There are only two paths for her sweet sister now, both depending on the answer to this question. If so, they will keep each other safe. If not, she’s lost. Lyanna is many things, but she always had much more honor in her heart than wit in her pretty dark head. She would want to come back, even if it means nothing, just another dead Targaryen or just another broodmare to sell off to a traitor. But Argella’s smart. She knows there is nothing left for them in Westeros.

_Lya, mother and father are dead._ – she thinks hard, as hard as she can. Maybe she can send her thoughts to Volantis somehow, someday. – _Benjen is dead. The dragons are dead. Ghost is dead. And I am dead also. Don’t come back, save yourself. Save Argella, her name is gone, her House is gone._

She closes her eyes and she sees it, sees as vividly as if she truly was there to witness Aegon’s second brutal strike on Seven Kingdoms; Storm’s End turned into another Harenhall, her aunt, uncle and cousins burned alive by the monstrous brown dragon; turned into living torches, screaming in agony, their skin peeling off and their meat falling from their charred bones. She has seen people die this way before; she knows how it smells. Her youngest cousin was just a babe.

House Baratheon, gone once more.

All she can do is hope that they didn’t suffer for too long. The beast fell from the sky like a giant cloud, in the middle of the night, so maybe they didn’t even register what was going on before the Stranger took them. What an irony, for her aunt and uncle, the fighters blessed by the Warrior himself, to go into the darkness like that.

A familiar shriek pierces the air as they rouge her cheeks and for a moment or two she thinks she is going to faint. Swatting handmaidens away, she comes closer to the window to look at the courtyard outside – and her blood boils instantly in her veins. Her knuckles turn white as she grabs onto the frames and leans outside, as far as she can.

Quicksilver is right below her tower and wailing sadly, neck stretched out towards her, her amber eyes flickering. Her very soul aches at her sight. What has become of her magnificent dragon? Chained to the ground like a goat, her silvery scales matted by dried up blood and soot, her wings pierced through so that she wouldn’t be able to fly – her, this creature made for soaring through the clouds. She looks pitiful.

The dragon shrieks again, tremble running through her body and her tail swishing. She keeps her eyes fixed on her and she suddenly realizes she’s half-hanging from the window. Wind plays with her hair.

She could jump, if she wanted to.

She could jump and spare herself all the pain and suffering that she feels.

Maybe that would be the ultimate punishment for the man that butchered her entire family; to deny him her hand, her cunt, her womb. She thinks she would look beautiful falling down from the tower, with white roses in her hair and her golden wedding gown flying around her. She would look like a stray sunray, or a falling star. People would talk about her suicide for ages to come.

And she would be the end of House Targaryen, the end of her family line, the end of her parents dreams of a better world. Would doom Seven Kingdoms for decades of tyranny and suffering.

This is not how she was brought up.

She is The Miracle Princess, The Light of The Realm, Princess Alysanne of House Targaryen, the eldest child of Queen Daenerys and King Aegon VI. The Heir to the Iron Throne. She knows her duty well.

She glances on the Quicksilver once again, looks her into the eyes. They blink in unison, the girl and the dragon. _We must endure it, my sweet._

With a deep breath, she turns away and goes back to her now-silent maids, lets them finish her make-up and swaddle her in lace and burgundy. Cat kisses her cheek before they leave the chambers and she kisses her back.

And with her head held high, she descends the grand steps of The Red Keep; alone this time, on a way to marry the man that stole her birthright.

The clouds have gathered and there is no sun.

*

Her maiden clock sweeps the floor behind her and, in the drowning silence, she can almost hear that sound ermine fur makes against the stone.

There are more people gathered in the Dragonpit that she has ever seen in her life and she is sure that there are even more outside on the street; rich and poor, crammed and desperate to steal even a glance of the wedding of their Princess to the foreign invader. And yet, seemingly no one utters a word. She can hear the breeze formed by their collective intake of breath as she enters the Pit, but no cheers, no loud gasps, nothing.

She glances at the stands. People have solemn faces. Women have tears on their cheeks.

_The price we pay for peace is grand indeed,_ their eyes say, the eyes of remaining Lords and Ladies of Westeros, watching as she sells herself off without a word. For the Dance of Dragons would ruin the prosperity they already got used to. For the War of Five Kings and The Long Night defiled the kingdom enough for this silent vow of non-aggression to take root.

The Last War, that’s how people titled the war between her parents and Queen Cersei. And oh, they turned out right, cause when so-called Prince Aegon fell upon the Summerhall on a dragon bigger than Hill of Rhaenys and feed the ground with the blood of Targaryens once again and then burned Storm’s End to the ashes, no banners marched against him.

None – but the Starks.

With each step, she recalls a name and with a name, she recalls a face, and with a face, she recalls all the love that they have given her through the years.

_Arya. Gendry. Eddard. Durran. Beric. Nymeria._

_Sansa. Robert. Jaime._

_Brienne._

_Her mother. Her father. Benjen. Drogon. Rheagal. Dusk. Ghost._

_All dead._

_Joanna. Cat._

_Enslaved._

_Argella. Lyanna._

_Lost._

Somewhere in the distance, Quicksilver wails.

The man who calls himself her cousin stands in front of the High Septon, clad in browns and golds of his banners. His dark eyes watch her hungrily, as she nears closer and closer. When he reaches out a hand to her, she takes it, lets him pull her up on the podium, lets him drink her in. Her breasts, her face, her lips.

_Stone, that’s what my skin is. Solid stone._

She realizes, with a flash of recognition, that she’s standing in the exact same spot where Rheagar used to lay, her wing covering three beautiful eggs, shining brighter than the brightest jewels in her mother’s collection.

She was six at that time, six and enchanted.

“Pick the one that sings to you” mother whispered into her ear and she did. The egg that she brought to her bedchambers that day was silver speckled with gold, warm to the touch. Within a fortnight, her dragon hatched, tiny and perfect.

She feels nothing, nothing at all.

_When she was a child, she used to have terrible night terrors that no sleeping potion could keep away and no maester could cure. So her mother has taken to staying up all night with her, singing her lullabies in foreign languages and stroking her hair to soothe her; in the morning, they would wear the same shade of purple underneath their eyes as in their irises._

_Her mother seemed so distant at times, like a goddess or a marble statue. The myth came alive. But this is when Alysanne loved her most, in those quiet, strange hours in between dusk and dawn. This is how she remembers her best; when she was stripped out of titles and honorifics and crowns. In a simple nightgown, with her hair down and smelling like lavender and lemons, her mother was the most beautiful woman that has ever lived and that was ever gonna live._

_That was all she has ever wanted, to be exactly like her._

Her lips move, forming words, but she cannot even hear her own voice. 

_“Be good, Alys.” Her father told her, when he was leaving to Summerhall for the last time, when she saw her parents for the last time. It was a lovely spring morning, bathed in dew and smelling like fresh starts. They were standing near the stables and he held his hands in hers, that’s what she remembers. “We’re leaving it all for you to handle. I know it’s a lot. But everything will be fine, I promise. “_

_He kissed her forehead then, lightly and smiled at her._

_“You are so good. Never forget that, my sweet.”_

_She watched as they rode away, tiara heavy on her head._

Aegon’s lips are dry and cold on hers. It barely feels like kissing a man; more like kissing a sword or a dagger, like swearing fealty. He reaches for the crown – definitely new, as she has never seen it before, this circle of gold and moonstones – and places it gently on her head.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the left, where Dragonbinder rests on velvet cushions; it’s dark gleam calls to her. What would happen if she, the true Targaryen, was to blow it?

_Dusk was a playful dragon, with a somehow mischevious glint in his eyes, matching the one in his brother’s. It was a colorful stain on the blue sky, pinkish-red dot twisting in acrobatic figures that would make her mother gasp and press her hand to her heart in fear._

_Benjen would just laugh, landing on the ground with grace and patting his dragon’s side like it was a horse. She has never seen him afraid, as long as he lived. He had so much fire within him that she was sometimes almost jealous of it, but now she’s just grateful. Maybe if she was a bigger dragon she would find another way than this, but she would probably just die trying._

_Because Benjen would not go down without fighting._

“Long live the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!” the herald announces and the crowd followed suit, obliging the unspoken command. But there are no cheers, as the Usurper leads her down the stairs and out of the Dragon Pit. Only silence on the streets, only the wall of people with their mouths shut closed. Even Aegon’s loyal men stay quiet and for that, she starts to wonder how she looks like, what kind of expression is painted on her face.

From up high, she can see it in the distance.

With its scales of the color of the mud, it stands out against the lush greenery outside Kings Landing’s walls. It’s so enormous her mind can hardly register its full size, makes her head spin. She wonders briefly if it is how big Balerion The Black Dread got before it died. But Sheepstealer is no Balerion. He is a wild dragon still, bound to Aegon by the power of Horn alone. He does not respond to his master’s feeling, doesn’t share his pain. Doesn’t even raise his head up, deep in his slumber.

A being so old and ancient, asleep for so long until the scream of the Horn woke it up.

_Maybe he wants for it all to end too._

She would love to hate this dragon but she cannot. _A dragon’s not a slave, but the bond you have transcends our understanding. It wants what you want, loves who you love and hates who you hate. Its nature is fire and blood, and you cannot change it even if you wanted. The only thing you can change is yourself._

Three dragons of House Targaryen against one ancient beast that remembers the times of her namesake and that has spent last century or so sleeping in the mountains below Dragonstone. Sheepsteeler’s eyes were as big as Dusk, for gods sake. The odds were decided before they even had a chance to dance.

Alysanne has learned how to be a Queen in the summertime of peace; how to bring happiness and prosperity to her people, how to keep lands flourishing, Lords and Ladies appeased, and common folk warm and full. She is good at that, she is good, she is good, like the Silver Queen Daenerys I before her, like the Good Queen Alysanne even before. People love her.

_Summerhall was a gift of her father to her mother, for their tenth anniversary. A small, elegant castle with red oak doors and lemon trees planted around it. Impossible to defend, really._

_But it was so liberating for them to be there, to leave the crowns and titles in King’s Landing and do nothing but bathe in the lake and lounge in the sun all day, sing songs and talk all night. Her aunt and uncle would often come from Storm’s End and she, her siblings and cousins would run on the lush hills; dressed in white and carefree._

_Summerhall was her parents' small kisses, exchanged when they thought nobody was looking. Was her brother's laughter and her cousins’ freckled faces. Summerhall was happiness that no one could ever take ever from her._

“We are going to build a new world.” Her husband whispers in her ear after the bedding, laying next to her and playing with locks of her golden hair. Her blood dries on her tights. “I will be your Jaehaerys and you will be my Alysanne, my Queen.”

He kisses her neck. She closes her eyes.

_“My good girl”, her father said, kissing her temple tenderly, just before she rode Quicksilver for the first time._

_“Family, duty, hour”, Cat said, clutching her hands and wiping away her tears, two lost girls locked in the same cell._

_“We’ll see each other soon, sweet sister,” Lyanna said in the harbor, holding Argella Baratheon’s hand and beaming. “And we will have so much to catch up on.”_

_“You have a name after the greatest queen in the Westeros’ history.” Her mother said late at night, amongst quite whispers of burning candles. “And I am sure you will prove to be worthy of it, my daughter, my miracle.”_

_“To rule is to serve.” Her parents said, with their bloodshot-eyes and tired voices, with their trembling hands and post-war terrors still plaguing their minds. The greatest people she has ever met._

_*_

It is said that the sky itself opened after the wedding of King Aegon VII and Queen Alysanne and wept with rain for the poor princess and her fate. It is said that it rained and rained and rained for so long and so hard that Queen’s dragon, unable to fly, drowned chained in the all the water.

But these are just stories.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my story, I hope you enjoyed it! Please, if you can, leave me a comment - even one good word or two can really make my day. 
> 
> As this story is based on my weird imagination and personal headcanons, I think it would be polite to clear out some things for those that are still confused.
> 
> Dany and Jon had three children - Alysanne, Benjen and Lyanna. When The Young Griff, a.k.a. Aegon attacked Westeros, they were resting at the rebuilt residence in Summerhall with Benjen. Aegon used the Dragonbinder in order to control Sheepstealer, the very old and probably absolutely enormous dragon, as they continue to grow until they die - i though it would be nice to use this particular dragon, as it was explicitly said in canon that it survived the Dance and as we know it, dragons can live veeeery long. So, Aegon flew to Summerhall and burned it to the ground, Sheepstealer killing Rheagal, Dragon and Dusk - Benjen's dragon - with relative ease, given its probable size. At that time, Alysanne was in King's Landing and Lyanna was visiting Essos with Argella Baratheon, the only daughter of Arya and Gendry.  
> Stark forces, lead by Lady Sansa, marched against Aegon after the burnings of Summerhall and Storm's End, but met a sad end, with Sansa's sons dead and her daughters captured.
> 
> If you have any additional questions about this fic, you are more than welcomed to ask me down in the comments ;)


End file.
